All really great and honest men may be said to live three lives: there is one life which is seen and accepted by the world at large, a man’s outward life; there is a second life which is seen by a man’s most intimate friends, his household life; and there is a third life, seen only by the man himself and by Him who searcheth the heart, which maybe called the inner or heavenly life. Most biographers are and must be satisfied with giving the two former aspects of their hero’s life,—the version of the world, and that of his friends. Both are important, both contain some truth, though neither of them the whole truth. But there is a third life, a life led in communion with God, a life of aspiration rather than of fulfillment,—that life which we see, for instance, in St. Paul, when he says, “The good that I would, I do not; but the evil which I would not, that I do.” It is but seldom that we catch a glimpse of those deep springs of human character which cannot rise to the surface even in the most confidential intercourse, which in every-day life are hidden from a man’s own sight, but which break forth when he is alone with his God in secret prayer,—aye, in prayers without words. Here lies the charm of Bunsen’s life. Not only do we see the man, the father, the husband, the brother, that stands behind the ambassador, but we see behind the man his angel beholding the face of his Father which is in heaven. His prayers, poured forth in the critical moments of his life, have been preserved to us, and they show us what the world ought to know, that our greatest men can also be our best men, and that freedom of thought is not incompatible with sincere religion. Those who knew Bunsen well, know how that deep, religious undercurrent of his soul was constantly bubbling up and breaking forth in his conversations, startling even the mere worldling by an earnestness that frightened away every smile. It was said of him that he could drive out devils, and he certainly could, with his solemn, yet loving voice, soften hearts that would yield to no other appeal, and see with one look through that mask which man wears but too often in the masquerade of the world. Hence his numerous and enduring friendships, of which these volumes contain so many sacred relics. Hence that confidence reposed in him by men and women who had once been brought in contact with him. To those who can see with their eyes only, and not with their hearts, it may seem strange that Sir Robert Peel, shortly before his death, should have uttered the name of Bunsen. To those who know that England once had prime ministers who were found praying on their knees before they delivered their greatest speeches, Sir Robert Peel’s recollection, or, it may be, desire of Bunsen in the last moments of his life has nothing strange. Bunsen’s life was no ordinary life, and the memoirs of that life are more than an ordinary book. That book will tell in England and in